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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27130249">50 Ways to Leave Your Father</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thunderrrstruck/pseuds/Thunderrrstruck'>Thunderrrstruck</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Psych (TV 2006)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Emotional Hurt, Gen, Headaches &amp; Migraines, Lost - Freeform, Overstimulation, Pre-Canon, Running Away, Running Out On Your Parents, San Francisco</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:34:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,125</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27130249</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thunderrrstruck/pseuds/Thunderrrstruck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Running out on his father was one of the most exhilarating and frightening experiences of Shawn’s life.</p><p>[Set during 1995, pre-canon.]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Henry Spencer &amp; Shawn Spencer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Whumptober</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>50 Ways to Leave Your Father</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for day 20 of Whumptober2020. Prompt: lost.</p><p>Warning: only reread once through before posting, and it's currently 12:23a as I post this, so forgive any grammatical or whatever errors. Also, I haven't researched up a canon timeline regarding as for when exactly he ran off, but to be fair, I think it's kinda up to the watcher's imagination. :P</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shawn’s forehead turned icy where it pressed against the bus’ window. His arms hugged to his backpack to his chest. The seat to his right remained open, something which perturbed him. Silence lead to questionable thoughts, and he’d rather talk to someone than sit with himself and stew up layers of doubt upon his already-ludicrous plan.</p><p>“What’re you doing?” he muttered at the window. Instead of an answer, his own reflection blinked and repeated all the same words and tone and movements back at him. Running away wasn’t the most illegal thing he’d done; in fact, he was eighteen years old, an adult in the eyes of the judicial system, which meant the state couldn’t care less about him as long as he did no harm.</p><p><em>Like getting the heck outta here</em>, the darkened corner of his brain chided, <em>you should have done this earlier. Why didn’t you?</em></p><p>“Because...” he mumbled again only to realise he hadn’t the language to provide further explanation. With every fight, every slammed door, and every session of blasting his music to drown out the screaming in his head, he had thought, <em>stick this out, I just gotta stick this out, and one day I’ll get out of here.</em> It hadn’t helped that his mother lived two towns over and always worked. I certainly hadn’t helped that Gus was stressing over final exams and college acceptances (whereas Shawn conveniently “forgot” to apply in the first place; he heard echoes of that night when Henry found out ringing between each braincell).</p><p>
  <em>Because, what? Because you were scared?</em>
</p><p>“Shut up, brain,” he grumbled. He pulled his pack closer and rested his chin on the top strap.<em> I’m not scared</em>, he learned to repeat in his head over and over again. <em>I’m not scared</em>, his pounding heart blared.</p><p><em>I’m not<b> scared</b>! </em>his clenched jaw shouted.</p><p><em>I’m not!</em> he snapped at his brain. <em>I’m <b>angry</b>!</em></p><p>The bus’ brakes released his sentiments exactly. Tires screeched  to a hail. Shawn caught the driver’s head lift in the mirror as the doors opened. “San Francisco Airport,” informed the driver, lacking even a semblance of care. Despite the lacklustre sendoff, Shawn scrambled to his feet, surged for the door, and - once he had pavement underneath him again - swung his backpack around to his shoulders.</p><p><em>Where to start, where to start...</em> he mused, glancing between a million coloured signs. The <em>signs</em>; everywhere. The sounds, the smells, everything played with his senses in bursts of excitement. Everything was a sparkler and this was the Fourth of July. Light pried its way into his eyes; sounds drilled into his ears; smells of cigarette smoke and sun-baked asphalt circled his nose like a decaying vulture. His eyes held steady but his vision quaked. Earthquake. Famous in California. But not one screamed, no one ducked for cover. What was shaking him? Why was only he shaking?</p><p>Shawn stared at an older couple to reorient himself, but his attention was taken by a solo traveler in confusingly long sleeves and pants (<em>doesn’t she feel the heat right now?</em> <em>where is she going? where is she running from?</em>). He determined answers only to shove them to the back of his mind. Yet, the second he did so, the current subjects left his ‘stage’ and others filled their place. A business man, moving solo, reverse tan line where a wedding ring once sat, a whiff of perfume as he past – cheater; a family speaking rapid French, father with a limp, kids complaining too loudly, harsh replies, kids falling silent – <em>awesome parenting</em>, Shawn thought sarcastically; two cops leaning on a cruiser in the distance, talking – <em>they should have doughnuts</em>, Shawn laughed, <em>wait –</em>cops. Shawn’s blood turned to ice. He jerked his head away and began walking the opposite direction. <em>Where, though?</em> No clue. He stood on San Francisco cement. This city was far larger than the suburbs he knew.</p><p>Shawn opted to follow the French-speakers. Tagging in the back of a family felt less suspicious than following a singular person, and he needed to do everything to keep a low profile around cops. His dad had random contacts dispersed throughout the police force, most of them transfers out of Santa Barbara, and the last thing Shawn needed was to be sent back to his father’s couch where fifteen lectures would be waiting for him.</p><p>On his way down the sidewalk, he heard snippets of everyone’s conversations. the syllables he heard perfectly clear, but meaning jumbled around in his head. Outsiders’ intent clashing with inner anxieties clashing with his overworked judgement calls. Nothing about his situation felt unimportant enough to disregard, yet something had to go; <em>Wait, keep that, you might need it for later!</em> <b>I'll never need that; </b><em>You might; now, listen; it’s the family; what are they saying?;</em> <b>How can I know? It’s in French!;</b> <em>Could be important; </em><b>It’s not; </b><em>Keep it, memorise the sounds</em>.</p><p>Look here; look there; look at the overpass! That sign. Those people. <em>Cops, careful of cops! </em>Dad’s contact, maybe. Better stay away.</p><p>Interspersed between the thoughts, multiple “shit”s rang inside his head.</p><p>“Is there a damn bench anywhere?” he muttered.</p><p>
  <em>Just follow this family, for now. Get out of here.</em>
</p><p>He followed the family – he assumed he did – for a long while. While his eyes worked, none of it’s images were being properly processed in favour of preserving a shred of Shawn’s mental facilities. His brain was too cluttered to think straight, but at least he had his feet for that. He moved in strict line forward for as long as the fireworks blasted inside of him.</p><p>At long last, cool air touched his bare arms. His ears cleared. Inside his mind, a shower of sparks stopped terrorising his judgement. He came to a patch of grass, totally alone save for a few pigeons and a rather curious squirrel. Shawn could not wander any further. His feet ached, his back killed, and his thoughts oozed like the last, stubborn bits of toothpaste trying desperately not to be squeezed out onto the brush. He collapsed onto a slope of grass and dropped all the way onto his back. He blinked up at the sky. Never before had he seen it so heavily indigo. The Santa Barbara skies he grew up underneath were far more electric, even during sunset, and uplifting. The colour above his aching head was a muted version. (<em>Smog, maybe? </em>he’d no clue.)</p><p>Shawn folded his arms behind his head and finally closed his eyes.</p><p>If only someone told him right then and there to get used to it; <em>You’re starting the search for a better home, this ain't gonna be easy; you'll be searching in a million different places</em>.</p><p>Instead, he just felt lost.</p><p>And a little hungry.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I may turn this into a multi-chap detailing Shawn's life on the run. What d'y'all think? Interested? Excited?</p></blockquote></div></div>
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